


The Love Of A Murderer

by Arvak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark, Dark Stiles Stilinski, First Person, For those of us who enjoy feeding that dark part of our souls every once in a while, M/M, Murder, Murder In Detail, Underage - Freeform, but it's done well, i guess, murderers in love, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvak/pseuds/Arvak
Summary: He liked the chase. He liked hearing their breath catch, liked seeing their muscles tense, their eyes widen. He liked the moment they realized they weren't alone; the moment their instincts took over, and he got to find out if they were a runner or a fighter. He liked the ones that ran, if only because it meant he got to chase, but they very rarely put up much of a fight once he's captured them. However, the ones that fight - he liked those ones. It was often so much more brutal. The ones that put up fists and grab things to hit with - they allow things to get bloody.-A short story following an exciting endeavor in which Peter and Stiles explore the wondrous world of dark indulgence - specifically that of murder, because Peter is manipulative and has tainted Stiles' good soul in quite a profoundly fantastic way... For those of us who enjoy feeding that dark part of our souls every once in a while-





	The Love Of A Murderer

**Author's Note:**

> _Just a little story I wrote when I was in high school. I submitted it to my teacher because he said it was a free-writing assignment about something thought provoking that had to follow a "dark" theme. What did he expect? Obviously not this because he tried to refer me to the school psychologist._
> 
> _Anyway, I wrote it with Peter and Stiles in mind without actually including Peter and Stiles specifically in the story since they're not my characters because that's a no-go in English class apparently._
> 
> _Enjoy the darker side of my lovely personality!_

He liked the chase. He liked hearing their breath catch, liked seeing their muscles tense, their eyes widen. He liked the moment they realized they weren't alone; the moment their instincts took over, and he got to find out if they were a runner or a fighter. He liked the ones that ran, if only because it meant he got to chase, but they very rarely put up much of a fight once he's captured them. However, the ones that fight - he liked those ones. It was often so much more brutal. The ones that put up fists and grab things to hit with - they allow things to get _bloody._

He liked to do it along a dark street. So many people have to park in a dark lot. It’s so easy to find them, follow them, and wait for them to catch on. This time, it was a woman. Long blond hair, jeans and a low-cut shirt. She looked like she cared about how she looked. He thought the same, he’d said, then he'd said that he wanted her to be ugly by the time he’s done with her.

She was walking along the street with her phone in her hand. I watched him come around the building behind her, hands in his pockets and a devious tilt to his shoulders. I watched from the fence by the water as she grinned to herself, tapping away on her phone, and he slowly, effortlessly cornered his target. She was walking into a trap, and she had no clue. My heart sped up in anticipation as I waited for her to reach her car and realize he’d lifted her keys from her purse when he’d flirted with her earlier today. She’d trusted him so easily. I hoped it was him she was talking about – maybe telling her friends about the handsome man who told her she was so beautiful she flustered him into forgetting how to walk for a moment. It would make this so much more poetic.

She reached her car and started rooting around in her purse, a smile still on her face. Slowly, she started to frown slightly. She moved over to put her purse on the hood of her car, but then stopped when she saw him approaching. He was only a few yards from her, and getting ever closer.

That’s when I saw it. The moment she figured something was off. The moment her excited curiosity of seeing him again turned into wariness as she connected the dots. He had helped her pick her purse and all of her belongings up when he’d ran into her.

He lifted his hand, and dangling off his finger were her car keys.

If I had a pocket watch, I could’ve marked the exact millisecond the atmosphere changed. Her shoulders tensed just before she turned to run at full speed, and his legs kicked off to chase her. In just the space of a fraction of a second, they went from barely strangers on semi-equal footing to classic predator and prey.

It was beautiful.

She ran towards me – the only way she could run, and she begged me for help, desperation and fear in her tightened throat, but I did nothing. I only watched with calculative ever-seeing eyes.

People would never guess I had the heart of a murderer. People would never look at me, a skinny 17 year old boy who could never get off the bench in gym and guess that I’ve killed 14 people, or that I sleep with an attractive, successful, 28 year old man who’s killed 54 people, innocent and guilty alike.

This would make 55.

I never figured I’d become a murderer, either. I always knew I was mostly attracted to older guys, but I never figured I’d end up here, being a normal kid and going to school and complaining to my dad about stupid shit and then sneaking out to see him. Usually we just talked or ate or watched TV or had sex, but often, he’d get blood-lusted and we’d go out. We’d go far. We’d go on long trips sometimes in the dead of night and find a beautiful place to stain red with someone’s blood.

It wasn’t what I saw myself doing two years ago when this very first started, but I don’t think I care.

I don’t care that I’m smiling at a woman I’m about to watch die by the hands of the man I'll go home with tonight.

The woman quickly realized I was in on it and she darted away from me, looking over her shoulder. She started running towards the sidewalk that trailed along the edge of the water and would exit at a residential area.

He sped up and grabbed her. She screamed and he slammed his hand over her mouth, pinching her nose shut hard as well. I knew how hard he did that. She’d bruise in a matter of seconds, her entire mouth turning a red or deep purple. Probably a deep purple.

She was a struggler. She kicked and pushed and hit and pulled, and I watched him fight her every step of the way to the water. I could see the aggravation in the tight pinch of his face. When the lake’s water splashed over their feet, she fought with a new fury, finally realizing what was about to happen.

I was surprised when she reared her head back and clipped his chin and sent him falling backwards into the water. She scrambled away from him and he got back up with a new fury, a growl in his throat, and he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back towards him, then threw her into the water roughly. She sputtered and scrambled for a moment while he wiped the blood away from his mouth with an air of frustration, then he grabbed her by the hair again. She screamed once more, arching her back as he pulled her back towards him, but her scream was cut off short as he pushed her into the water. I wondered if she knew that would be her last scream. Her last breath.

One hand stayed clutched roughly into her hair while the other fisted the back of her shirt, and he held her under. She kicked and splashed and clawed at his arm, but she didn’t have the strength he did. I watched his wet shirt reflect the distant lights, illuminating his muscles as they flexed to fight to keep her under the water.

If he wanted to, he could do anything he wanted to her. If he wanted to, he could do anything he wanted to _me_. Being a 17 year old boy, I weighed even less than her. I weighed less than most of the people he's killed. I was less impressive, far less intimidating.

But that’s the power I had. He would never hurt me. If anything, he would only hurt _for_ me. He does get rough, of course, and he does bruise or claw me, but never in the same intentional way that he hurts everyone else. He hurts me with _care_. That's the love of a murderer.

I watched when she finally stopped moving, and watched him hold her under just a moment longer before pulling her head out of the water. She was limp and unresponsive, eyes empty, jaw hanging wide open, water spilling from her mouth; ugly in death such as he wanted.

This was what he lived for: Death.

I was different. I lived for him - the murder was something thrilling that I enjoyed the rush from - but I could see what he does. He's tried to explain it to me countless times before, and now I get it.

The beauty of it was that she was no longer a person. He had taken that away from her. Now, she was nothing more than a mass of dead cells, borrowed molecules and energy that the universe would eventually take back. She would decompose somewhere ultimately irrelevant, and she wouldn't be remembered, except possibly by a select few people who would inevitably die one day, and her memory would be taken to the grave with them all the same. Regardless, everything that had been her would become void of any sort of significance or material property. Because of this, her life, in retrospect, meant nothing. She had made no impact on anything relevant. No one ever does. In an instant, the steps traveled within any life prove inconsequential, leading only to yet another corpse to clutter the Earth's soil.

Surprising even to myself, I found myself appreciating the wonder of it.

He panted as he tossed her back into the water. Her lifeless body floated gently in the river as the current slowly took purchase. He watched her float for a moment, his thoughts possibly parallel to mine, then he looked over at me with those wild, crazed eyes of his. I love that look in his eyes. That blood-lusted glee.

I stepped down from my perch at the fences to meet him on the sidewalk with a forming grin. He grabbed my waist, hauled me against him, and we kissed. My favorite time to be with him was after he's killed someone, if only because he’s still amped-up on the chase and the kill. He gets eager and rough, and I love knowing that I have such a strong claim over such a brutal, unkillable beast; to overpower him is to overpower all of the others that he’s killed.

I could taste his blood on his lips and I grinned. He was mine. The untamable animal is mine to control, and mine to gently patch up once we’re home and sated. I would lay him down on the bed and sit on his hips while I prodded at his busted lip. He would grumble and roll his eyes, insisting it was practically nothing, that it would heal before I even got a band-aid out, and I’d kiss him. He’d reach up and card his fingers in my hair and whisper “I love you” in my ear and make me grin and blush like it was the first time he said those words, and not the hundredth. I would look up into his captivatingly blue eyes, the blue of Arctic icebergs when they weren't bright with the electric blue of distant lightning, and I would smile with more emotion than I could comprehend. He would lay me down and kiss my skin like I was something to be worshiped and not the scrawny, useless kid in school that everyone else saw me to be. He saw me as I was, in secret; the boy he taught to kill; the boy whose body and mind he corrupted so extensively. And that, he says, is what makes me the most beautiful thing he could ever touch, because, like his kills, I am one of his manipulated pieces of art – something beautiful that he tainted so brutally, but I am one which will live on with him rather than cease to exist after he's done.

That's the love of a murderer.


End file.
